


Trouble is Gonna Come to You

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [61]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, Revenge, Sexual Harassment, Warning for OC being a sexually harrassing sexist polyphobic dirtbag, dirtbag comes a cropper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:16:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sergeant Beaton insists on making filthy innuendos about Sherlock and John's sex life, which doesn't exist.  What pisses John off is not the innuendo: it's Beaton's clear attempts to belittle Sherlock. But he's not allowed to punch in a copper in the face. Luckily, Mary Morstan knows a thing or two about putting tossers in their place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble is Gonna Come to You

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Led Zeppelin's Your Time is Gonna Come.
> 
> We met Sergeant Beaton and his brand of asshattery in 'Violent, Sweet, Perfect Words'. Many people wished John had punched him then. I thought this might be better.

John pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and reminded himself, again, that punching Sergeant Beaton in the face was a bad idea. Extremely tempting, yes. Positively desirable, by some lights, but otherwise a Bad Idea. Punching policemen never led to anything good (except for momentary and, it had to be said, _splendid_ satisfaction).

Sergeant Beaton, forensics officer and complete tosspot, was oblivious to the temptation he was laying before the good doctor, and failed, as usual, to shut the fuck up.

“I guess he’d know all about, you know, kinds of lube and condoms and stuff.” Beaton wasn’t so unsubtle as to wink-and-nudge, but somehow the action was there anyway.

Well, yes, Sherlock _did_ know all about those things, and John did not want to tell this git the absolutely side-splittingly _hilarious_ story of Sherlock coming home with forty kinds of lube and fifteen brands of flavoured condom and two different motorised dildos and proceeding to engage in a case-related, non-masturbatory experiment with them all over the kitchen table; and what he said when Mrs Hudson came in, and how he nearly dropped a concoction of lube, blood and bleach on the floor when she replied, “Well, dear, I hope the formula has improved because those strawberry ones used to taste _nasty_ but my first husband insisted they made him look bigger”; and how that evening Sherlock asked Mary for advice on the flavoured ones (and a confirmation of the nastiness of strawberry latex); and how he waved Nirupa’s offer of assistance aside because, as a lesbian, he wouldn’t be so insensitive as to ask her to _taste a condom_ , and in any case he already had John as a control in that regard, and then wondered why Mary nearly burst a kidney she was laughing so hard.

The whole thing ended with Mrs Hudson poking at an unwrapped, unlicked strawberry condom, sniffing it and declaring that “forty years of progress haven’t really produced a better flavoured johnny at all, have they?”, followed by Sherlock pretending to have been deaf for the whole thing.

The tale was trotted out from time to time, especially in mixed company, because Mary couldn’t stop telling it. Particularly the bit about John licking flavoured condoms and trying to be studious about it  and then getting in an argument with Sherlock about whether his note-taking was scientific enough, while his beloved and her bestie hooted with glee in the background.

That was a good story, that one, and explained much of Sherlock’s extensive knowledge on the subjects of lube and condoms. John _loved_ that story.

“So do you, you know… use different ones? All the time? To keep his knowledge up to date? God, he doesn’t stop to take notes, does he?” Beaton smirked. “Bet he does. You poor bastard.”

John’s fingers twitched and he curled them into fists, then hastily uncurled them because seriously, a pre-made fist and a pre-made dickhead were just destined to meet at speed, weren’t they? _Do not punch the nice policeman, John. Or the fuckwitted policeman._

John jammed his hands into his pockets and wished to Christ Sherlock would stop going over the scene with Anderson so they could leave. Anderson shouldn’t even have been here, off duty as he was. This was Beaton’s case. It was just that Anderson had been with Lestrade on the way to band practice when the call came in that the on call DI was sick and so Lestrade was stuck with it. Anderson had simply arrived as a fifth wheel at the same time that Sherlock and John had arrived, likewise detoured from rehearsals.

After Beaton had gone over the blood-splattered dingy hotel lobby, and then Sherlock – noting all the signs of a sexual aspect to the apparent robbery – Anderson had taken an interest. He stood at the doorway of the lobby, making notes. He’d asked a few questions, and Sherlock had answered them in an offhand, offensive way, and Tad had simply scribbled some ideas and added checkpoints to his List. Then he asked some more questions and, even though Sherlock continued to be rude, he had also continued to answer the questions. Beaton, in a snit, had retreated to regale John with his current monologue.

“Must be worth it, though,” said Beaton after a not nearly long enough pause. “Getting to drill that plush arse. Bet he’s not such a pompous git face-first in a pillow, eh?”

If John had been disposed to think of Sherlock in terms of desire, he supposed his friend did have a fine enough arse, and it wasn’t that aspect of Beaton’s commentary that bothered him. It was the lack of respect, for Sherlock mainly. As though this idiot could somehow diminish Sherlock’s genius by his implications that Sherlock needed _controlling_ , needed _shutting up,_ needed _taking down_ a peg or two.

 _If I deck the bastard,_ John was thinking, _I can ask Mycroft to bail me out. Mycroft wouldn’t mind. He owes me a favour. Or I could owe him one. I don’t mind. Either way._

Instead, John excused himself by saying he was required… in other places. Over there. And he walked away, grinding his teeth.

His position _over there,_ out of the way, gave him a nice clear view of Mary and Nirupa’s arrival. He’d texted Mary, returned only an hour ago from a business meeting in Manchester, to come collect them from the sex-and-death hotel. Sherlock had been nearly done at that point. He’d thought lunch might be nice, with the four of them. He’d continued to text her, on and off, about the case and this ass Beaton, who had once more decided to spout innuendo and try to belittle Sherlock at the same time.

Mary, looking very posh in her tailored suit, waved to him across the rows of police, tape, reporters and curious bystanders. Nirupa was behind her, dressed smart-casual and trying out the new camera she’d bought on the trip. She lifted it and snapped a few shots of Sherlock and Anderson at the door. She held the camera at an angle, trying for an arty shot of the crime scene tape.

Beaton, waiting for Holmes and that interloper Anderson to clear the scene, heard the click-whirr of the digital camera and turned. He came face to face with an adorable creature, petite and pert of breast. Nice eyes, lush mouth, and really, really, quite lovely breasts. Beaton smiled winningly. His gaze kept dropping down to that delectable cleavage. _Lovely._ Properly _fit,_ this one.

“Well, hi there. You with _The Sun_ , then?” He nodded at her ID tag still swinging from the lanyard around her neck. The one that did not say _The Sun_ at all, but he was less interested in what it did say than in trying to flatter her. And look at her breasts some more.

Mary Morstan tilted her chin at the policeman addressing her in such warm tones, her brown eyes sparkling with merriment. She flashed a glance at Nirupa, who likewise recognised Beaton immediately. John’s texted word picture of ‘he’s the cocky little shite who looks like the after picture in a “turn from a spotty git into a smarmy prat” ad’ actually captured Beaton’s look disturbingly well.

“Something like that,” she lied blatantly. And then she simpered. Just a little.

On the other side of the police tape, John Watson was frowning at her in between shooting death glares at Sergeant Beaton. His expression clearly said _What are you up to?_

Mary tossed her head coquettishly and, in that second when Beaton couldn’t see her face, she gifted her honey with a playful smile.

Sherlock’s head shot up as he, too, caught her expression, saw Nirupa, saw the obnoxious prat standing next to them, and realised Something Was Going On. Then he noticed John’s thunderous glare school down into something gleeful and a bit feral. Sherlock bent his gaze back to Beaton and Mary. He grinned. This, he surmised, was going to be _good._

Sherlock elbowed Anderson to shut up, and Tad followed Sherlock’s gaze to the tableau behind the tape. “Oh Christ,” Tad muttered, “ _That_ moron.”

Mary Morstan was not big on crime scenes. It wasn’t personal – and she certainly had no problem with the fact that her beloved and his best friend were in fact _giddily_ big on crime scenes. Mostly it was just that she had other things to do, and unless it involved building a bridge or a road or a dam of some kind, there wasn’t much she could contribute. But she _knew_ about crime scenes in a general sense.

Also, Mary Morstan’s sense of humour was sometimes a bit evil.

“Are you the detective on the case?” she asked Beaton, all wide eyes and girlish curiosity.

Beaton beamed at her. “I am indeed, and I’ve pretty much solved the case already.”

“Oh,” she breathed. She almost added _Are you allowed to tell me?_ but thought that would be laying it on a bit thick. Besides, she could practically _feel_ the way that Nirupa was rolling her eyes, even though she couldn’t see the eyes in question.

Beaton didn’t seem to mind the lack of subtlety. He moved closer to Mary, perhaps so she could be impressed by his manly detective-y presence, and said: “It’s all quite elementary.”

Mary hoped that later Nirupa would give her a medal for not snorting with laughter at this point. It was clear the unmitigated twat was planning on claiming the credit for all of Sherlock’s work, possibly thinking that because Sherlock rarely took the public credit these days, nobody would be any the wiser.

“You see,” said Beaton, and Mary was frankly appalled at how little encouragement the dreadful berk required to get going, “The murderer made one fatal error…”

Beaton went on to explain, rather sketchily, how the killer had brained the victim with a brass lampshade because of an argument about stolen sex aids and a nasty habit the dead man had of trying out the goods before resale, which had pissed of the supplier. He mentioned finding a spilled box of condoms and a tube of fine grade lube behind the locked door leading to the basement, which turned out to have been used both for the receipt and shifting of stolen goods, and the trialling of same.

All of which Mary already knew because of John’s texted commentary, sent while he was waiting for Anderson to stop asking Sherlock for details.

“How did you know to look behind the locked door?” she asked at the end of the unsatisfactory explanation.

Beaton stumbled a little, looked a bit puzzled, but at her eagerly interested expression, just nodded and said, “Detective’s intuition, love. All the best coppers have it.” He winked and leered a bit, probably thinking it was sexy.

“Not because of the scratches around the lock to show it had been opened in the dark, and the bloodstains, not quite wiped away, on the floor at the bottom of the frame showing how someone had been smacked in the head with the door when they tried to crawl out?” Mary asked innocently, “Plus what could only have been blonde pubic hair stuck to the door frame with mint scented lube, no more than six hours old?”

“Don’t forget the mould and dust adhering to the victim’s elasticated plimsolls, showing he’d been held in the basement,” interjected Nirupa over Mary’s shoulder, impatient with the game, “Not to mention the bruising on his mouth from being gagged with a dildo for three hours, and the weird ligature marks on his wrist from the fluffy handcuffs and the chair.”

“That’s right. And the contusions on his hands from when the poor beggar finally got himself untied and tried to escape through the foyer in the dead of night, only to find his bad tempered partner-in-crime waiting for him.”

“Never trust a night duty receptionist,” said Nirupa sagely, “Who moonlights as a stolen sex aid distributor. Come to that, who’d buy sex aids off the back of a lorry?” Her tone was genuinely curious.

Beaton stared at Nirupa, blinked, then after a nervous moment, tried on his Winning Smile. “You make an excellent point,” he began, “Let me…”

“I wouldn’t bother,” said Nirupa with a snort and pointed at herself. “Lesbian.” She pointed at Mary. “Woman with excellent taste.” She pointed at Beaton. “Wanker.”

It was at this point that John and Sherlock strolled up. John, beaming, gave Mary a kiss on the cheek, and she responded by planting a proper snog right on his willing mouth. In the meantime, Sherlock allowed Nirupa to drop a hello kiss onto his cheekbone, returned the gesture with all due warmth, and then tolerated Mary giving him a wet kiss on the forehead. She had to tug him down by the lapels to do so, and then she booped him on the nose with her forefinger.

“I’m feeling rambunctious,” Mary declared.

“I can tell,” said Sherlock drily. He turned to Beaton next. “Close your mouth,” he instructed, “Before a moth flies in. Or your brain falls out.”

Beaton closed his mouth, but his gaze darted from John to Mary to Sherlock to Nirupa and around again. Watching his eyes flit frantically from one to the other was a bit vertigo-inducing.

John waved to Lestrade. “Off to dinner, Greg. You know how it is. I’ll be in tomorrow for the paperwork and with the invoice, yeah? Reschedule rehearsals for tomorrow?”

“I think Molly’s off shift still. I’ll text you.”

John took Mary’s hand, raised her knuckles to his lips for another kiss, and then they dashed off in the wake of Sherlock and Nirupa who were already climbing into a taxi.

Beaton’s distracted staring at the departing cab was interrupted when he sensed the DI standing at his side.

“You seem a bit confused, Sergeant,” said Lestrade. He looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“I thought Watson and Holmes… but that woman… and that other woman…” He huffed an aggravated sigh, and then decided his best defence was to be offensive again. “Should have known that freak’d have some weird-as-fuck polyamory orgy thing going on.”

Greg Lestrade momentarily considered that despite the fact that only two of that four slept together, that one of the others was a lesbian and that the fourth, to his knowledge, was pretty much asexual, _polyamorous_ might possibly describe the set-up at 221B Baker Street. Four people who were a close-knit family, who had chosen each other, who clearly thought the world of each other and as unconventional as it was, it worked for them. Nothing wrong with that at all.

As Anderson reached his side, however, what DI Greg Lestrade did was to glare at Sergeant Beaton with the full force of his rank and his disapproval.

“John hasn’t lodged a formal complaint,” he said, “Actually, he hasn’t said a word to me, formal or otherwise, but I’ve seen enough today. Consider yourself on notice for sexual harassment.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, sir,” Beaton protested, “I’ve got nothing against the gays. We’re all equal here, sir. Some of my best mates are qu…”

“You’d better not finish that sentence, Sergeant.”

Beaton swallowed the rest of the word and looked at his singularly unimpressed DI with a very bad feeling. 

“I’m signing you up for some HR training,” Lestrade continued, “And if you don’t work out soon the difference between having queer mates and sexually harassing your colleagues and the public, you are going to be in a _world_ of strife.”

“Yes, sir,” said Beaton smartly.

Lestrade marched off to put some distance between them, and tried to stop thinking how he wished John had punched the tosser.

Beaton recovered to find Anderson giving him a pitying look.

“You’re with me though, right?” Beaton said, “That Holmes and Watson, weirdos, the pair of them. Can’t even be properly gay.”

Anderson just snorted at him. “You’re an idiot, Beaton. Go to the training and grow yourself a brain.”

“Now hang on…”

“And for God’s sake, stop talking. You lower the IQ of the whole street.”

Then, looking very pleased with himself, Tad Anderson trotted off to catch up with his DI.

 


End file.
